


No Rest for the Wicked

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:18:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fix-it fic regarding the end of Bela Talbot</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest for the Wicked

Bela broke into the Winchester’s motel room while they slept on dream-root. She cracked their vault as their bodies twitched, reacting to something that was real and wasn’t at the same time. She figured she should leave before the Winchesters realized what she was up to (unlikely because they just didn’t think like thieves), but Bobby had given her a good deal in Flagstaff.

That amulet had saved her life, an integral part of a chain reaction that had finally, after nine years of searching, relinquished the name of the demon that held her deal: Lilith.

And let it not be said that Bela did not pay her debts. So she stayed, even though her insides crawled and jumped at that tiny possibility that Sam and Dean would cotton on to the fact that their safe was empty or that Bobby, never blind to bullshit, would pull her aside, confront her, bloody well try to reclaim the Colt, and she didn’t want to hurt Bobby because he’d never done anything to her—but she would if he tried anything.

She was relieved when everything went off without a hitch, when her sleek little car zipped along the freeways without pursuit—protected with sigils and mojo bags to ward against prying eyes, twitchy fingers, and malevolent intentions.

Once she found a crossroads with the appropriate amount of tragic, bloodshed history—the sort that attracted evil like gangrene—she performed the ritual to summon the highest order of crossroads demon within her power and knowledge. His name, according to the spirits on the other side and the low level demons that told tales for the right price, was Crowley.

He came softly, between the frames of existence her eyes could register at a time—first he wasn’t, then he was, smiling and adjusting his scarlet velvet tie as he said, “Again with the rituals—it’s the twenty-first century, darling. Or did you miss the memo?”

“I know,” Bela said, raising the Colt. “But it’s easier to threaten people without a crowd.”

Crowley raised his hands. “Straight to the point I see. I like that in a woman.” Then he licked his lips. “Where did you get that?”

“Where’s Lilith?” Bela hated that the spell she had picked up, the one that assured her that the name of the demon was all she needed before it pointed her in the right direction like a magic-sanctioned GPS hadn’t done anything but stare back at her, like she was a cat trying to coax a dead mouse back to life so they could continue their play time.

Crowley peered over his shoulder, under his designer shoes, swiveled his neck round and round in a way that wasn’t entirely human. “Haven’t the faintest, darling.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” Bela said. “I’ve heard whispers. About the two of you.”

“Lovers’ quarrels are so ugly,” Crowley said. “A real barrier to the sharing of personal spaces and secrets. If you know what I mean.”

“Do you or don’t you? A yes or no will suffice. I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself.”

Crowley’s face spread into an easy smile. “You’re a moron if you think that killing Lilith will get you out of your deal. You just can’t waltz into hell and kill Lilith—not unless she wants you to. Now me on the other hand—” he gestured towards Bela grandly— “lovers kiss and make up all the time. And who’s to say a little role-play would be out of order? Nobody’d have to know I’d be Judas.”

Bela laughed. Trust this demon to kill Lilith when she didn’t even trust the Winchesters to get their shit together and hunt the bitch down? Likely. “Is that a deal you can kiss on?”

“What, because demons don’t kiss and tell?”

Bela stared down the length of the colt at him, unblinking, waiting.

Crowley shook his head, his shoulders shifting, as if he were trying to make his host body fit closer around him. “If you think about it—relinquishing the Colt to me is a win-win situation. I might succeed. I might not. But if I do succeed, you won’t even hear the scrape of a hell hound’s nails at your doorstep. If I don’t succeed—use your imagination. But if you definitely don’t give me the gun, well.”

Bela curled her tongue over her teeth. “I think I’ll take my chances and just take care of this myself. Now if you can’t offer me anything of value, why don’t you just run along home?”

Crowley looked from her, then to the gun, before grinning as he disappeared with a soft whisper of air as it slotted into the space his body had once occupied.

Bela tucked the Colt into her belt and returned to her car. It was unfortunate that Crowley couldn’t guarantee that he’d succeed in killing Lilith. But it wasn’t as if Bela didn’t have other options—and the weight of the Colt at her hip assured her that not all was lost—she just had to figure what those other options were.

The demons wanted her to kill Sam and Dean. Fine, she said she would, because when she wanted something, she lied for it, and what she wanted was time—and what were lies to demons who bore no kisses with their sweet promises?

They wouldn’t keep their word. So neither would she.

The only words they’d keep would be those of a frightened little girl, clutching desperately for hope and life and vengeance on a playground.

Fine.

And when time finally ran out, after she hazarded that nothing would be lost if Sam and Dean were to know the name of the demon who held all the deals, the hell hounds scratched at her door. Bela could hardly see straight, the room twisting and morphing with hallucinations, a dress rehearsal for the pit, but she stood wide in her boots, hair tied back out of her face, the Colt steady in her grip. “Come on little doggy,” she breathed. “Tired of waiting.”

The door collapsed, shattering under the weight of the pack, and she shot the first one between the eyes, then went to the second and third, aim sure and straight because it was the first thing she had taught herself all those years ago.

Bela hadn’t known how big the hell hound packs were—perhaps there were no packs and they just kept coming and coming and coming—but she ran out of bullets first before she ran out of dogs. She bit her tongue to keep from screaming as they tore into her—she would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her pain, she’d bite her tongue in two first.

And as the hounds dragged her soul from her body, she saw Crowley in his very fine suit, yelling at his own hound to “Sic em, boy!” and it did, growling, panting for blood, for flesh, but it just drove the lingering hounds away from her corpse, kept them from feeding on it, and he didn’t send it after her, to fetch her soul back like a good boy—and why should he, when there had been no arrangement?

The last thing she saw before darkness and hell and cold overtook her was Crowley stooping over her body, prying the gun from her dead fingers.


End file.
